


Succumb

by TheTiniestTortoise



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Canon Dialogue, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Just Say Yes, Non-Consensual Drug Use, References to Drugs, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:08:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22296832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTiniestTortoise/pseuds/TheTiniestTortoise
Summary: You've finally chased down the Baptist John Seed. The cat and mouse game is about to end. Only thing is, the Bliss might've gotten to you first.
Relationships: John Seed/Deputy, John Seed/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 47





	Succumb

**Author's Note:**

> Many many thanks to followthefreedomtrail for offering to beta whatever the hell this is!
> 
> “You will be ashamed because of the sacred oaks  
>  in which you have delighted;  
> you will be disgraced because of the gardens  
>  that you have chosen.  
>  You will be like an oak with fading leaves,  
>  like a garden without water.  
> The mighty man will become tinder  
>  and his work a spark;  
> both will burn together,  
>  with no one to quench the fire.”
> 
> -Isaiah 1:29-31

One syllable. Just one little syllable. A simple negation, though somehow it’s enough to refute a man’s entire life, his entire philosophy, the whole purpose of his existence.

No.

It was certainly enough to drive him into a rage so violent he’d almost killed your friend Joey and then almost killed you; but instead he’d tattooed the name of your sin into your chest like a bloody signature, grinding the needle into your sternum hard enough to make you cry out in agony.

_No._

That word he’d marked you with— _wrath_ —it’ll be carved into your flesh for the rest of your life. Though, Nick got it worse - for a brief moment you wonder if he’ll need grafts to cover up the gruesome wound John Seed left in his furious attempt at cutting the greed out of the intractable pilot.

Maybe that wrath is what’s fueling you as you brace one hand on the roof of Nick’s commandeered sea plane and jump to the ground, pulling your department-issue glock from the holster strapped around your thigh. It all seems like such a joke, now; the oath you swore to uphold the law, to act with honor and integrity.

Where was your honor when you were across the river, shooting down his sister’s angels? They’re still men, after all. Brains addled beyond repair by that goddamned Bliss, but _still._ How many have you put down since you woke up back in Dutch’s bunker? How many civilians killed at the Peggies’ hands because you just couldn’t save everyone?

How many killed at _his_ hands?

He rolls in the dirt before you now, bloody and disoriented, untangling himself from the parachute that had nearly granted his escape. The last time you’d seen him was so much different; it was before you’d come back across the river and pissed him off even more.

You’d been on the other side of the Henbane, swimming in Faith’s Bliss fields and stumbling around those godforsaken angels of hers with every other step you took. Trying to stay present, keep two feet on the ground. Trying to stay _sane_ , but it was easier said than done; the Bliss was potent, and it lulled you into her world with an ease of efficiency that terrified you.

But, despite everyone’s talk about what they’ve seen, it wasn’t always her in those vivid hallucinations, calling out to you like a siren. Mostly, it had been him. Him and those goddamned blue eyes. The ones that cut into your soul like shards of ice and swirled into a violent storm just before he’d become furious and flipped the work table in his bunker when you’d hissed out that one vicious syllable.

_NO._

But deep within the fields of Bliss, those eyes had been a calm oasis; crystal-clear pools of cerulean, sirens of a different sort. Those eyes had promised love, salvation. Freedom from the cruelty and callousness of the world. His arms had opened to you. Butterflies with wings the color of his eyes had flitted by on the gentlest of breezes, alighting on his shoulders as if to prove the point.

_You’re safe here, with me._

_The world will never hurt you again._

_I will never hurt you again._

_I can save you._

_If you’ll let me._

You’d gone to him, powerless to resist. He’d kissed your eyelids. It had felt like a cleric placing coins over the eyes of a corpse; solemn and reverent. It had felt like being kissed by the wings of those butterflies. It had felt like _bliss._

You reach up, fingers ghost across the blood-encrusted letters on your chest. 

_Wrath._

That is what you try to summon as you lean down over him, reaching out to curl those fingers around the chain that hangs from his neck. The key. That is all you need. You try to remind yourself. You keep the pistol aimed at him.

Your vision still goes fuzzy around the edges sometimes, even though you’re back in mostly untainted air. This just happens to be one of those times, apparently, and you try to will away the sudden shift in equilibrium, the sensitive pitch of the ringing between your ears. It almost sounds like a paean.

His hand snatches at your wrist and holds you firm. He’s still trying to catch his breath; the parachute brought him down rough and he landed hard. You should be putting a bullet in him, putting an end to this, putting one Seed down to move on toward the others. But those eyes catch you. In your peripheral, you think you can just see the haze of the garden, tinting the edges of your vision in the ethereal glow of the Bliss.

“What if Joseph is right? Did you ever stop to think about _that?_ Everyone thinks he’s crazy. But he’s not. Look around you,” he mutters, cutting his gaze away for a moment.

Your jaw clenches. You tighten your grip on the pistol, push the barrel down against his chest. It’s easier when he’s not looking at you.

He tightens his fingers around your wrist in return, icy blues flicking back up at the prodding of your weapon over his heart. “This world is on the brink. You can feel it in your bones. Look at the headlines,” he jeers, wheezing slightly, “look who’s in charge!”

Your lips curl back into a snarl. You blink fast, trying to clear the haze around the edge of your vision, the fog that’s quickly filling the inside of your mind.

He leans forward, gracing you with a smile that borders on kind. Is it real, or only a lingering hallucination? It’s getting harder to tell the difference the longer this _thing_ between you goes on. You will your finger to pull the trigger.

“You want this key because you think that you’re saving people, but they are _already safe._ We had a plan. You don’t understand,” he concludes with a curt shake of his head, “you don’t believe. _You don’t care!”_

“That’s _not true!”_ You wrench the key from around his neck as hard as you can, mostly so that maybe he won’t notice how much you’re trembling if you’re no longer in his grasp. You don’t know why you feel tears pricking at your eyes. Perhaps because the saccharine smile has disappeared, quickly replaced with that righteous anger of his. You’ve become achingly familiar with both, and it’s getting harder to tell reality from the dream.

“Tell me something,” you demand, swallowing down the lump in your throat. Hard thing to do with a mouth so dry. Your words taste bitter. “Was it you?”

He leans back on his elbows, relenting to the gun you still press against the breast of his coat. The smile returns, only a little hesitant as he searches you with his eyes, considering the question. “How enigmatic. I’ve been responsible for many things, deputy. You must be more specific.”

Your eyes narrow. You press your lips together tightly. A second ticks by like an hour. Instead of pulling the trigger, you hurl the broken chain and the key goes flying into the mud. “Was it you? Or was it _her!?”_

John blinks, turning his head only slightly to track the sudden flight of his bunker key with more than a little surprise. But he catches on to what goes unsaid.

_You’ve been blessed._

He’s thought many things about the most recent addition to their holy family, not all of those thoughts pure. Rachel Jessop had been just another druggie, like so many others they’d taken and washed in the waters. A sad dope fiend before Joseph found her and filled her with righteous purpose; turned her fascination with the dope into one of their most powerful tools.

It gnaws at him, sometimes, the ease with which she is able to convert these heathens. Feed them the drug, whisper sweet nothings into their ears, send them along the Path. His world is vicious and full of pain. He has to work for _every_ confession. He’s bled to match _every_ drop he’s spilled. And she is _still_ Joseph’s chosen. She holds no special place by right of birth or blood; she is a pet project, nothing more, and certainly not the first. If Joseph can have _his_ pet, why not John?

He sees the way your pupils have dilated, blown wide even though it’s broad daylight. He can’t help a gleeful little laugh as he reaches up to wipe some of the dirt and soot from his face with the heel of a palm. “What did you see, deputy? In the Bliss?” He leans forward, pressing bravely against the barrel of your gun. He is not afraid; he never was, but he hadn’t been sure before that you wouldn’t pull the trigger and end him. He is sure now.

You’re succumbing. The Bliss has cracked your skull as easily as an egg shell. Sense and reason and rational thought seep out; there’s simply no room for them when the drug and the dreams it produces begin to expand. Your lip trembles. “You know what I saw. You _have_ to know,” you mumble low, practically pleading. “Otherwise…o-otherwise…”

You’re too afraid to admit what it means if he _doesn’t_ know that he is the subject of your visions. If it _wasn’t_ actually him whispering to you. It means his sister was somehow showing you what you _wanted_ to see. You don’t know how or why, you _hate_ him, he is a sadist masquerading behind the guise of holy authority, a vicious wolf preying upon sheep.

John leans closer, easily pushes the pistol away from his heart. He is audacious. You should know this by now. He covers your wrist with a dirty, tattooed hand, wraps the other around the barrel and removes it from your trembling grasp. His eyes never leave yours. The smile is back. It widens. It makes him look tender. Innocent. Forgiving.

“Do you have something you want to tell me, deputy?”

A butterfly flits past in your peripheral. A sharp inhale precedes another series of blinks, but you can’t stop the tear you feel crest and trail languidly down your cheek. “Yes,” you croak out so low he can barely hear.

“What’s that,” he queries softly, leaning in even closer, bringing with him the cloying scent of aviation fuel mixed with the expensive cologne he wears.

He is close enough that you can feel the barest hint of his breath against your lips.

_“Yes."_


End file.
